Bonus Good News: A Feast for the Heart

Today's Gospel lesson comes after the original ending of John, so what do we do with this bonus good news?

 

Acts 9:1-6, (7-20)

Revelation 5:11-14

John 21:1-19

Psalm 30

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was preached at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL on the Third Sunday of Easter. A video of the message may be found here. 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

At the end of last week’s Gospel lesson — right before today’s story — we heard the following: “But these [things] are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” Boom! Resurrection, belief, and new life. End of story. Roll the credits.

 

Except… not quite. It’s like in an infomercial: But wait! There’s more!

 

Today we hear a bonus, post-Resurrection encounter — it almost feels like a surprise scene after the credits of a movie or a hidden track at the end of an album. In this Gospel lesson, John sneaks in one last story about the Risen Christ, it’s a secret epilogue of grace. As though, God is saying: You thought I was finished? I'm just getting started.

 

And what is in this bonus good news? What is it that God is just getting started?

 

It’s a beach breakfast, a miraculous catch of fish, a conversation about love and forgiveness, and—surprisingly—a challenge… to not just “believe,” but to live differently because you believe. 

 

Now y’all, I know that change is challenging. Even when that change comes from experiencing the Resurrection. For in the new light of Easter, we experience newfound freedom—knowing that death doesn’t have the last word—but, this new way of being is impossible. At least it is on our own. 

 

So, friends if you hold on to nothing more from these lessons, remember that if you are going to live “life in Christ,” you will need the risen Christ feeding you and transforming you. But, what does this sustaining presence look like? Well, let’s start by looking at a failed fishing expedition.

 

After everything—the empty tomb, the Easter appearances, and the imparting of the Holy Spirit (according to John)—what do the disciples do? Go on a mission to share the Good News? No! Serve the needy of Jerusalem? Nope! Pray unceasingly worshipping God? Nah! Instead, the disciples go fishing. 

 

It's an odd thing. After everything that happened, they just went back to what they were doing before. And, who could blame them? There is not empirical data measuring the stress levels of these 1^st Century disciples, but imagine the mental and emotional load that was upon them. The leader of their movement had been viciously killed and mysteriously raised. It would make sense to blow off some steam by doing something fulfilling and familiar. It’s what we do too, right? 

 

Perhaps we do this by going fishing, but it could also be when we’re golfing, hiking, running, cooking, traveling, or any other number of other productive ways to cope with stress. So, the disciples head to some well-known surroundings to recenter and recognize what had taken place, but…

 

They were terrible at it—at least the fishing. You would have thought none of them had fished before. How did they survive by doing this? Because they fished all night long and caught nothing. Not a single fish! 

 

Then, at dawn, just as the sun rose (or was it the S-o-n that rose?), a stranger on the shore shouted: “Children, you have no fish, have you?” (Ouch! Who is this mean heckler on the shore?)

“No,” they sighed in reply.

“Cast the net on the right side,” he offered. It is not in any translation, I’ve ever read, but I imagine the disciples rolling their lives and retorting: “Don’t you think we tried that!” But, eventually, they did cast their nets on the other side. And, bam! They hauled in 153 fish. More than they could haul into the boat.

 

It’s in this moment of abundance that the proverbial scales fell from their eyes. John recognized: “It is the Lord!” Simon Peter, never one for half-measures, went all-in, throwing on his clothes and diving into the sea. (Only Peter would get dressed before swimming… I mean, was he worried about Jesus seeing him shirt-less?)

 

When the disciples reached shore, what did they find? Jesus. Already there. Already preparing a meal for them. Already sustaining them! Before he sent them out to feed others, he fed them first. But, we do not live by bread (or fish) alone. For then, came the deeper work of spiritual sustenance.

 

After breakfast, Jesus turned to Peter—remember he was the one who had denied Jesus three times—and in a series of questions that were as tender as they were cutting, Jesus asked Peter three times: “Do you love me?”

Each time Peter said yes, and each time Jesus responded not with “That's nice” or “I love you, too,” but with a commission: “Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.” 

 

In this moment, we see more clearly that love to Jesus is not just a warm feeling. Instead, it is a choice, an action. And, in the three-fold affirmation of Peter’s love for Christ, we also discover that God’s love is about restoration. The denials of Good Friday morning are undone here at this brunch on the beach. And though we know that Peter still didn’t get it all right, his later mission and martyrdom exemplify a life turned toward the service of others. And here’s where this bonus scene of Good News challenges us. Jesus’ unbinding Peter and his denials is inextricably linked with a transformation—a difference in being and behavior.

 

The priest and author Barbara Brown Taylor once told a story about a seminary classmate from Lebanon who was curious why his classmates did not want this for themselves. He grew frustrated with the other students, saying: “All you Americans care about is justification! You love sinning and being forgiven, sinning and being forgiven. Has anyone ever heard of sanctification? Is anyone interested in learning to sin a little less?” These are hard questions, but appropriate ones. Don’t we want to be transformed? Don’t we want to live in integrity when it comes to the relationships of our lives?

 

The truth is the Risen Christ forgives us endlessly, like we saw in Christ Jesus’ repeated forgiveness of Peter. However, Christ also calls us beyond the hamster wheel of sinning and being forgiven. Christ calls us to be transformed. How do we know this? Well, look no further than our lesson from the Acts of the Apostles this morning. 

 

Saul, the bloodthirsty persecutor, became Paul the Apostle. The adamant victimizer who held the cloaks of those who martyred Saint Stephen, became the evangelist who helped spread the Christian message to the Gentiles. Or, look again at Peter, the denier, who became the rock on which Christ built the Church. 

 

Both were fed by the grace of God, but neither stayed the same. Their lives became acts of penance in the best sense — not as punishment, but as repair. They did not change because they feared God’s wrath (although I think Saul’s blindness certainly put the awe of God in him), instead they changed knowing the freedom of serving in Christ’s ministry. Their faith was not just a listless “I’m sorry.” It was a moving, new way of living: loving, feeding, tending, and serving.

 

This is what sanctification looks like. This is Life in Christ. This is Resurrection! So, what about us? Do we want this?

 

You may feel tired. Maybe your nets have been empty. Perhaps even returning to old sources of sustenance isn’t as fruitful. Maybe you’ve been stuck on that hamster wheel or out in lifeless waters. Perhaps you cannot break the old sinful ways. If any of this sounds like you, look to the shore. See the Risen Christ. He’s already readying a meal for you and for all. Let him feed you. Let him love you first. Yes, here at Christ’s Table, but also in prayer, in the study of scripture, in giving to others, in being loved on by this community, or countless other ways that God is yearning to meet you.

 

And then—because you are loved beyond measure, because no matter what you have done you have been forgiven—get up. Feed his lambs. Tend his sheep. And, love his flock (all his flock). Because the bonus good news isn’t just that Christ is risen. The bonus good news is that you are rising too. Amen.

Ugly Boxes of Resurrection

The Resurrection doesn't wait to we're all pretty!

Acts 10:34-43 

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

1 Corinthians 15:19-26 

John 20:1-18

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was preached during the Feast of the Resurrection on Easter morning at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found here. 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. 

 

Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen, indeed! Alleluia!

 

The unfinished 1x10 and 2x8 boards were an eyesore. Sitting out on the church lawn, they began to catch the eyes of parishioners and passersby alike. “What are those?” one member asked as we began a Vestry meeting. “They look like coffins! Are they for a funeral?” another laughed as she chimed in the conversation. They weren’t coffins, but I could see the confusion, and even though the mission of the wood was noble, I agreed that they weren’t pretty. That wasn’t their purpose. 

 

What were they? Why was there wood on the church lawn? O, I’ll get there, but first… Easter dad jokes!

 

What do you call a rabbit with fleas? Bugs Bunny!

Why did the Easter egg hide? Because it was a little chicken!

Why doesn’t Jesus wear a necklace? Because he breaks every chain! 

 

I tell these terrible jokes on Easter morning because the Resurrection is the greatest prank of all time. Better than Ashton Kutcher on Punk’d or the Impractical Jokers, Jesus bamboozled sin and Satan, death and even his disciples on that blessed morn’ long ago. So, it’s fitting—if a bit painful—to endure some jokes today. 

 

What wasn’t so funny was what was happening at the first church I ever served St. John’s Episcopal Church in Decatur. The congregation had soured over a new initiative that required some coffin-looking things to be constructed in our church yard. Why would a church that prides itself on decorum within a denomination that prides itself on decorum put some ugly boxes out on the lawn? Well, one part of the answer is the correct response to most Sunday School teachers’ inquiries: Jesus! 

 

We put those boxes outside because Jesus told us to. But, more specifically they were there so that something new could grow. You see, at St. John’s Decatur, much like here at Holy Apostles, Hoover, we wanted to be good neighbors. And, instead of telling our neighbors how we were going to love them, we asked them what they needed. Well, we did that after we had almost tarnished the relationships by telling them what they needed to do. Eventually though, they let us know their dreams and we let them know our capacities and together we began to vision. 

 

Specifically, these conversations happened with our neighbors at Banks-Caddell Elementary School. At that time, they had the worst standardized test scores of all the elementary programs in the city. Most of their students came from the literal other side of the railroad tracks in a heavily segregated city. Many were behind grade levels in math and reading. Few had any help at home. The outlook for many of these students was bleak at best. Plus, they didn’t much like our faith community calling us the scary church across the street—things were not looking so great. 

 

However, at the suggestion of St. John’s then Rector, the Rev. Evan Garner, some members of the congregation went to meet with the principal of Banks-Caddell. 

 

They asked what our church could do to help. The head of the school jumped at the offering and wondered, “Do you have any space for a garden? We have a gardening club at the school, but nowhere with enough sunlight to plant a community garden.” 

 

Did we have space? Yes, we had space—in the form of a big ol’ sunny church yard. So, at a workday, we put together four big, raised garden beds. Now these were not the prettiest structures ever crafted, I mean they looked like roughly hewn caskets, but didn’t that just add to the power of what was happening here?

 

Amazing things happen inside a garden. Just ask Mary Magdalene.

 

Y’all in today’s Gospel lesson, she thought she was talking to the gardener. Which is… hilarious, and also maybe the most fitting and theologically accurate case of mistaken identity in all of Holy Scripture. Because of course, Jesus was the gardener.

 

There, in the early morning light, beside an empty tomb, with tears still fresh on her cheeks—Mary met the One who still tends to our grief and breaks the soil of sorrow with new life. She met the Great Gardener of the Entire Cosmos!

 

Think about how crazy this was: she went looking for a body. And instead, she heard her name,“Mary!” That’s when she knew that this wasn’t the end—it was merely the beginning.

And, to think the whole Christian story—our story—started in another garden: Eden. Cast your mind back to that Sunday School chestnut: After Adam, Eve, and the serpent started the blame game, which sadly continues to this day, we lost our immediate connection with Our Creator. The Fall, as we call it, was not only something that happened once long ago, but is also something we all endure through the pains of this human life. Don’t follow? Stick with me for a moment.

 

What I mean is that the woundings we undergo thrust us out of the proverbial garden that is our original essence. Even though we always bear the very good image of God, when we experience difficult wounds, especially in childhood, we find ourselves eating the fruit—opening our eyes to see the brokenness of this world. We begin to define life via the lens of good and evil, and we are thrust from Eden. Outside the garden, life is toilsome and broken. So, to deal with the pain, we cultivate egos to protect us from hurt. However, these egoic vessels guard us from more than injury, they also keep us from our true selves. 

 

But, just like with Mary Magdalene, this isn’t the end—it’s the beginning.

 

For our true nature gets reclaimed here in another garden. Where something that looked like death—a tomb, a place of isolation, an ego-centric worldview—becomes the compost of creation. These, let’s just call them “manure situations,” surprisingly have a way of hastening our maturation—as St. Paul put it, “suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” The hard-won progress of moving from suffering to endurance to character to hope also reveals our truest selves. Of course, this path runs counter to the comfort and convenience our culture values so highly. 

 

As much as our society loves the fanfare of an initial public offering or the party of a rebranding effort, it’s funny to think about the Resurrection, which began not with public triumph, but with intimate tenderness.

And, as much as our world (and even the Episcopal Church) loves to understand the reasoning behind why something is the way it is, the Resurrection begins not with understanding, but with presence.

And, as much as our denomination loves pomp and circumstance, the Resurrection begins not in a cathedral, but in a garden.

 

In other words, the Resurrection starts in all the unexpected places—where grief still lingers, where wounds still fester, where the future seems volatile, and life itself looks more like a coffin than a cradle. 

 

That’s where God meets us—calling us each by name. God bids us step away from who we pretend to be to make it through the day, instead we are called to live as our true selves, even when the wounds still haven’t healed, or life looks more like a nightmare than God’s dream. 

 

In a church yard, a classroom, a hospital bed, a broken heart, or a garden bed that looks like a tomb—that’s where God will find us. Wherever, you are today—that’s where God is finding you. Not to shame you. Not to lecture you. But to call you. To whisper, “Follow me into resurrection.” To say, “You thought this was the end… but it’s not. It’s merely the beginning. You thought this was a coffin, but it’s soil.”

 

And speaking of soil, the ground on which we started the community garden at St. John’s is still bearing fruit. Our relationship with Banks-Caddell grew so much over the five-years I was there that it was hard to imagine the church or its yard any other way. What’s more, the students at that elementary school improved their test scores two whole grade levels thanks to a tutoring program we initiated. St. John’s also started providing scholarships to any Fifth Grader who could not afford to attend a class trip to Camp McDowell’s Environmental Center. The students even stopped calling St. John’s the scary church across the street. Instead they called us their friends. As much as any of us would like to take credit for all that happened, it was Our Good Gardener’s doing.

 

So, friends, let this Easter morning remind you that the Risen Christ is still gardening…

Still cultivating hope…
Still turning tombs into nurseries…
Still calling us by name in the most unlikely places…

The wood may look rough,
The ground may seem hard,
But you never know what might grow there until you try.

 

With Our Good Gardener know: this isn’t the end—it’s merely the beginning. 

 

Alleluia. Christ is risen.

 

Amen.

 

 

Singing in the Dark

 

What can the Exsultet (an ancient hymn that we sing at the Easter Vigil) teach us about the Resurrection?

At The Eucharist

Genesis 1:1-2:4a [The Story of Creation] 
Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea] 
Isaiah 55:1-11 [Salvation offered freely to all] 

At The Eucharist

Romans 6:3-11 
Psalm 114
Luke 24:1-12

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached during the Easter Vigil at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles. A video of the sermon may be found here.

 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

Alleluia! Christ is risen! The Lord is risen, indeed! Alleluia! 

 

Friends, there are few things in the Church’s life more haunting—or more hopeful—than the Exsultet. The song, I sang at the beginning of our liturgy.

 

You heard it while still shrouded in shadows, just after the Paschal Candle had found its stand in our darkened church. Everything quietened except the flame and my trembling voice, which sang:

 

“Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels…” and later…
“This is the night.”

 

It’s eerie. And yet—utterly beautiful.

 

The Exsultet remains one of the oldest pieces of liturgical poetry we still sing. Its roots stretch back to the 5th century. Some scholars trace it to St. Ambrose or St. Augustine—others to the dawn of the Western Church itself.

 

It has been sung through plagues and wars, in hushed cathedrals and rowdy prison chapels, accompanied with trembling and with trumpet. And every year as we return to it, we hear again: This is the night.

 

This is the night when death and life collided.
This is the night when God’s mercy broke like a tidal wave upon our sinful shores.
This is the night when light dared to shine in the darkness—and the darkness comprehended it not (to borrow the King James Bible’s language).

 

We gather tonight not because everything is already bright and beautiful, but precisely because it’s not—because… wouldn’t you know it… resurrection begins in the dark. Sure, our forebears, the disciples did not behold it until Easter morn, but it’s here in the darkened soil of the vigil that resurrection starts blooming! However, truth be told, the history of our salvation weaves way back to the foundation of the Universe.

 

It all began—like our readings tonight—with the story of creation—the voice of God shaping order out of chaos, light called forth from deep darkness, and God called everything not very bad, but very good! 

Then, when God’s People were locked in Pharoh’s Land God’s liberating love provided an Exodus out of Egypt. In our Second Vigil lesson we heard the haunting tale of Moses and Miriam and the sea that split just in time.

Next, in Isaiah, God called the weary, including us to: Come, eat, drink. You don’t even need money. Just return to the Lord, who will abundantly pardon.

And yet, even after these inspiring stories of our salvation history—our voices were not yet fully triumphant, were they? Sure, we have been singing throughout the night, but the Easter acclimation didn’t arrive right at the start. Did you notice that? Perhaps, that’s what makes the Exsultet so provocative and powerful. It is a song of joy sung in the dark. A trembling candlelit cry that grace is greater than grief, that mercy outlasts sin, that God has already rolled the stone away, even if we haven’t seen it yet.

 

Some years, the soaring theological phrases of the Exultet may accurately represent our internal, joy-filled reality. Other years, it takes everything to whisper the words in our hearts alongside the cantor. Regardless of how you are feeling though—the song continues.

 

Like back in 2020 when Holy Week services happened entirely via livestream. It was such a disconcerting time, wasn’t it? At All Saints, where I was serving at the time, I remember pre-recording our services. We filmed them out of sequence. When we recorded the Vigil, the Paschal Candle stood solitary in a silent sanctuary while COVID crept outside our doors, forcing us into a strange isolation.

 

Even then: This is the night.

Even then: Christ broke the chains of death.

Even then: Love rose victorious from the grave.

 

Friends, as beautiful as this song and service are, I know that some of you may have come here tonight stuck in the Good Friday part of your soul. Isolated not by disease like in 2020, but by fear or hurt or failure. And, if you are still in the shadows, still in the sealed-off tomb, or still waiting for the dawn, that’s okay. That’s part of the journey. Sadly, what I just described is an all too real byproduct of our volatile and broken world. 

 

But hear this: Easter does not require your certainty. You don’t have to be happy. This night asks only your presence. Think about it this way: we do not wait to sing the Exsultet until sunrise. It begins while it’s still dark. The Exsultet reverberates in the darkness because God is here too. It’s not unlike the God character Aslan the Lion in C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. Even in the dark, God is on the move!

 

And that, I believe, is why we still sing this ancient song—why it still matters. Because God is still at work in us. Because the Exsultet reminds us that resurrection does not erase suffering, but it does transform it. Joy is not the absence of pain, but it’s holy companion. And, hope is not naive optimism, but the stubborn song that refuses to go silent, even when the night is long.

 

Now friends, I know not everyone loves crooning. We’re not all Frank Sinatra, Celine Deon, or Michael Bubble. Nor do we have a chanting role in the service or a spot in the choir. But, witnessing the profundity of this night invites us to reply, and I’ve been assured that when we sing, we pray twice! So sing out! Make a joyful noise or at least some noise to the Lord!

 

If you’re here tonight with joy—sing.

If you’re here tonight with grief—sing.

If you’re here tonight with nothing but doubt or exhaustion—sing.

 

Sing because this is the night.
This is the night that shattered sin and separation.
This is the night when heaven eternally embraced earth.
This is the night when Christ Jesus rose from the grave.

 

And even now, though the sun has set; even now, though the world appears as dark as midnight; even now, as we experience our own shadowy challenges, Christ’s light will not be extinguished. Like the beauty of the paschal candle, God’s light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it; it doesn’t even comprehend it! So, this night and always, may we sing of the resurrecting love of Our God who even now is on the move in us, in our community, and in the world!

 

Alleluia, alleluia, Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen, indeed! Alleluia, alleluia!

 

Amen. 

Give The Present To God

If all time is a gift from God what do we do with the present?

2 Samuel 7:1-14a
Psalm 89:20-37
Ephesians 2:11-22
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

© 2024 Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on July 21, 2024, the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 11B), at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the service may be found here. 

 

Earlier this summer, I got to be a big camper at Wonderful, Wonderful Camp McDowell. I was not alone. My elder child, Teddy was my bunkmate and we had a blast. I was reminded why time at camp is the best! Through Teddy’s first experience at McDowell, I could see such joy—making new friends, singing songs, having a pasture party, swimming in the pool, and being in the woods! There was one block of time each day though that was a challenge. This period reminded me of how much I did not like this hour when I was a wee little camper.

Back then, I despised this time above all other times. No, it was not swim tests. Nor was it dancing with yucky girls who had cooties—I mean even as an awkward and pimply tween, I liked to dance. I even liked the minimal air-conditioning, the time away from TV, and the rustic restrooms. The time I could not stand, I could not tolerate, I could not abide was none other than “rest period.” 

You may think that I am a calm, laid-back, and contemplative person. And, as your pastor, I aspire to be a non-anxious presence, but deep down I’m like a duck. On the surface I look like I’m floating along, and yet underneath the water level there’s always churning and movement and activity. So, as a camper to ask me to nap or be quiet or even sit still on my bed during rest period was the greatest agony. Why yes, I did have a cushy childhood—why do you ask? Still, I did not learn the great joy of napping or resting or even relaxing until later. Even now I love restoration, but I’m not good at it. And, I’m not alone. 

We as a society cannot calm down. Even back during Pandemic time when much of the world slowed down, there were many people burning themselves out! This tells me, we are not good at resting. As someone once told me, “I don’t do nothing well.” Incorrect grammar aside—we don’t do nothing well. We are bad at sitting still. We are like campers who have been loaded up with sugar and can’t sit still during rest time. 

So, what do we do when Jesus invites us to “Come away to a deserted place all by [ourselves] and rest a while”? How do we slow down enough to even hear him inviting us? Can we utilize Sabbath time or moments of respite wisely?

In the Church, we often talk about Stewardship of money or resources or even volunteering opportunities. As important as our stewardship of these gifts is, so is the stewardship of our time. As we enter the last bit of summer vacation (away from school), I wonder, how can we be good stewards of our times of leisure? 

I wrote about this last month in Happenings, but on the surface the phrase “Stewardship of Leisure” sounds silly, for leisure is spare time, time off, or free time used for refreshment. Why not let it just be spontaneous? Why worry about free time? Doesn’t that sort of structure defeat the purpose? To answer these questions, think about some free time or a vacation that felt unfulfilling. Maybe you came back more tired than when you left.

When we do not use our down time effectively it is akin to spending important monetary funds on something that you do not need, that does not bring lasting joy, or does not serve a larger purpose. Sadly, I have experienced a few retreats and vacations that depleted me instead of recharging me. Those unsatisfying moments of leisure were such because I did not think from the perspective of good stewardship. I was not thankful for what God was giving me. In other words, I did not recognize that the time away was a gift from God. I was a bad steward of time. 

To listen to Jesus’ call to come away with him to a quiet place of refreshment is not about having the perfect plan. For that sort of over-scheduling can in and of itself defeat the work of the Spirit to create new spirits in us. So, what does being a good steward of leisure time or time in general look like? Well, what does today’s good news teach us?

As you might have noticed, there is a hole in the middle of today’s Gospel lesson. In that space (6:35-6:52) is the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand. Don’t worry over the next five Sundays we will hear way too much about Jesus and bread to make up for this week’s missing morsels. Today it’s important to see how Jesus’ invitation to come away to a deserted place did not turn out exactly as we might expect. 

Jesus invited the apostles to rest awhile. And yet, that time of respite was cut short, as the Spirit intervened in the way of many tired souls seeking sustenance. They descended upon Jesus and his friends as soon as the protagonists reached the shore. 

This onslaught of people meant that the disciples had no leisure time, not even to eat. Tired and hungry from their own missionary work, the disciples may have even been looking forward to a little rest and relaxation. Instead, they were tasked with helping Jesus feed the masses. It was as though a feeding ministry broke out in the middle of their retreat center! The time that God had given the disciples to rest was now time when God was asking them to work. Can anyone here relate to life throwing something unexpected your way? 

Maybe all of us can think of times during the last several years when we thought one thing would happen, but something else entirely came to be. Parents who were excited to have children at home only to realize that teachers do not get paid enough money. College students or workers who rejoiced at not having to get out of bed for class or a job, then realized that Zoom can be more work than in-person classes or meetings. Recent retirees who looked forward to travel, but then faced isolation and staying at home to avoid getting sick. There are countless ways in which one thing was expected, but another came instead. A seminary professor I had said on the first day of orientation, “Expectations are resentments waiting to happen.” 

So, what do we do when life surprises us? Are we never to rest? Are we to give until we are burnt out, broke, and bone-tired? 

Perhaps the fruit of this passage grows from an exploration of the way we see not only our free time but all time. Maybe you have heard of the practice of a rule of life, or as our outgoing Presiding Bishop Michael Curry calls it, a way of love. The purpose of this way is to find everyday practices that encourage and challenge us to give our first fruits to God—to give our best time to forming habits that nourish our relationship with Christ. When you thrive in your way of love, when you dedicate yourself to a framework that grows your relationship with God and neighbor, then all time gets transformed. This isn’t always easy to remember though.

During seminary I often felt like I had too much to do—papers to write, sermons to prepare, and work to do at my field parish. Sometimes I would just do the bare minimum. I would go to the required one chapel each day, but I shirked a second or third opportunity to spend that time with God and fellow students. 

One day I was walking back from class with a friend. He began to turn toward the chapel and I started toward my apartment. I said, “I went to Morning Prayer already. I don’t have time to go to Eucharist today.” He responded humbly, “I don’t know what I have time to do until I go to chapel. Afterward my priorities become clearer.” After a deep exhale, I turned around and went to chapel.

Maybe in that moment I felt guilty—like one of the disciples who just wanted to rest and not deal with the hungry thousands. Slowly though, I have realized how wise my friend’s words were. Every moment of every day, God gifts us with the present. Each new day overflows with opportunities to grow our relationship with God and one another. 

We need times of Sabbath, restoration, and healing, or else we will not be able to sustain our personal and collective ministries. And, whether it is free time or work time, family time or personal time, prayer time or other time God gives us each second, minute, hour, day, week, month, and year. All of it is a gift—regardless of what type of time we think it is. 

At all times and in all places, we are called to give thanks to God for the present we receive. Some of those moments will be Jesus calling us away to a deserted place, and other moments will be times to forget our needs and serve those who are without. If we continue to give our best moments to God, we will discover something amazing.

Like how God transforms the bread and wine that we put on the altar each week into our Eucharistic Sacraments: the Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven; the Blood of Christ, the Cup of Salvation, and like how God transforms the monetary gifts we bring to the altar as symbols of ourselves into the ministries of healing and blessing in this world, when we give our time to God, God transforms it and God changes us. 

Each nanosecond we receive from God is already a gift. God beckons us to give each moment back, so that it may be blessed and sanctified. Like how a child might get markers and paper from a parent, but what they give back is pure gift for that guardian! All moments are gifts. Can you recognize them as such and give them back to God? This will be easy during a calm moment with Christ, but what about when the would-be-tranquil-times are interrupted by a chance for ministering to another? Even then, this moment is a gift. When we recognize that all time is gift it is easy to give the present back to God. Amen.

The Greatest Joke of All

  

The Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles on this Easter morning!

Acts 10:34-43

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

1 Corinthians 15:1-11

John 20:1-18

©2024 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

Holy God, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

There’s an Easter tradition within the Church, which I quite like. On this the Day of Resurrection, we tell jokes. Not just any jokes—we tell, terrible dad jokes about Easter! I mean why else would priests be called father if not for their awful sense of dad humor.

·       Do you know what the forecast was for this morning? 100% chance of Son rise!

·       Why did the easter egg hide? Because it was a little chicken!

·       Knock, knock! Who's there? Wendy. Wendy who? Wendy Easter egg hunt taking place? It’s after the 10:30 service, by the way.

·       When Jesus was resurrected what happened when he saw his shadow? Seven more weeks of Easter! 

 

Okay, I’m sorry. Those were bad eggs. Yikes, so was that. Alright, moving onward, you may wonder why we tell these yokes… I mean jokes on Easter. Well, it’s because there is a belief that this, the Day of Resurrection, is the greatest joke of all time. This was God’s way of pranking sin, evil, and death. Some say that this was Jesus’ way of getting back at Satan who beguiled our first parents, tempted Jesus in the wilderness, and even wooed him in the Garden of Gethsemane. Regardless of whether you are envisioning a glowing Risen Lord laughing at a man dressed in red spandex with horns and a pitchfork or something more metaphysical, it’s clear that God does have a good sense of humor! Even our Gospel lesson for today seems a bit humorous. 

 

First, there’s the way John subtly refers to himself. Mary Magdalene found the stone rolled away and the tomb empty. What did she do when she saw it like this? She ran to tell others this mysterious news. Whom did she tell? Peter and some other guy—the disciple whom Jesus loved. That’s the pseudonym John the Evangelist gave himself, like how Samuel Clemens wrote under the alias of Mark Twain, or Peter Gene Hernedez is better known as Bruno Mars, or how we don’t call the world class performer Alecia Beth Moore, we call her Pink. 

So, that’s one funny detail, but then we get to the disciples’ Easter morning 5K.

 

Peter and John faced off in an epic race. After hearing from Mary that Jesus’ body had been taken, they sprinted off to see the tomb for themselves. John described it this way, “The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first.” In your face, Simon aka Peter the Rock—I guess if he was the rock he was not a rolling stone. What’s even more comical to me though is what happened after they reached the tomb. 

 

Peter looked inside first. Then, the other disciple (John, we know it’s you) peeked in his head presumably after catching his breath. When he went in, he believed—maybe. For John stated they did not understand the Holy Scripture yet, and they left. This is so odd. It’s a moment of disbelief, which makes sense. We are talking about Resurrection here. Even after 2,000 years we are still in the dark about this great joke that God has played on death (and us). The next funny thing may very well be the most touching. 

 

Mary wasn’t ready to leave. She was exhausted, she had to be. She had watched her beloved friend and teacher, the one whom she thought was the Son of God, she had watched Jesus die a gruesome death on the Cross. Then, when she went to check on his grave, she found it agape. She sprinted back and forth from the tomb to the disciples and back to the tomb. Then, when they left, she was all alone believing that Jesus’ body had been pillaged. In this exhausted state she saw into a realm that makes no logical sense. She saw angels in the tomb, Mary even had a conversation with them. 

 

They asked why she was weeping she expressed her theory—they took him away. Then, not by magic but by something much more powerful the angels gave way to a mysterious figure. It was Jesus, but the funny thing was that Mary could not recognize him. 

 

The man asked her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” I can imagine this tired woman being about fed up with all of this. She turned towards the man, and she scolded him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Why did she do this? John wrote she did this supposing he was the gardener. 

 

Supposing him to be the gardener is a low key truth about God that John casually drops in as a funny line here in the Resurrection story, but it’s beautifully touching. He wasn’t a gardener, he is the gardener—as one song from the camp I grew up attending attests, “He’s a peach of a savior, he’s the apple of my eye, and he trims away the branches when the branches get to high, he will never ever leave me, so I’ll never, ever die, so that’s why I’m bananas for the Lord.” 

 

The Gardener of Eden, the tender of our souls, the Divine One who gives all growth is truly who Jesus was, but no he was not the gardener of this graveyard. Mary would soon discover this truth, but not before another funny moment. Mary assumed that Jesus was the gardener who had hauled away Jesus’ body. It is on one level true though, he was not the gardener, but Jesus had in truth taken away the body. So, Jesus did something that is simply lovely. 

 

He called her by name. In saying her name, “Mary,” the apostle to the apostles, this first messenger of the Best News that God has triumphed even over death, finally could see the truth she had begun relaying to others. She would then be able to fully announce that she had seen the Lord or as she calls him Rabbouni (meaning teacher). 

 

This Day of Resurrection encounter as told by John is full of these little moments of peculiarity, these comical bits that push me to not only see the best joke of all time that death is no more, but also to understand more truthfully the Best News of all time. There is nothing, nothing, not sin, not evil, not death, nothing you have done or left undone, no mistake too big, no crisis too tall, nothing that separates God’s love from you. 

 

We may though not always be able to feel this love. We might like Peter and John be too interested in competing against one another. We might like those disciples be too impatient hurrying off before the fuller bits of the Great Mystery are revealed. We might even like Mary have vision too clouded by grief or loss or exhaustion to see the love incarnate standing right in front of us. Still, God’s love persists through sin, evil, and even death. 

 

God’s love persists for you, for all, forever. And that is no joke. Amen.